


No Umbrella To Hold

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sad, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Anthea bond over death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Umbrella To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> so you should know I cried like a baby while writing this.  
> like a baby.  
> I cried so hard I couldn't see my computer screen. Maybe it's because I am a hardcore Mythea shipper, or maybe because I'm a baby. But man this hurt. You've been warned.

Of all the things that could take Mycroft Holmes from her, from the country, Esphonageal cancer was not on the list she expected. Top of her list included bombings, shootings, explosions and even poisons. But nature has it's way of being a sneaky bitch, and before they even knew it'd occurred, stage three was already on them and certain treatments, cures, were out of reach. Options limited and stage four approaching too rapidly, there wasn't much time left for the middle aged politician.

He didn't tell anyone and she only knew because she scheduled his appointments and treatment options. By the third doctor's appointment she knew what was happening without him telling her, and in the quiet confines of his inner most office he asked her to accompanied him. It's awkward, not really an asking of her company but her offer, because she's always been the one to voice exactly what he's thinking without even blinking. A soft smile with kind eyes is his response and she is sure to clear her own schedule for the days he has treatment. And most importantly, above all, is to keep this a secret-because the world doesn't need to know that shadow man Mycroft Holmes is dying.

Three appointments together and the doctors offer Mycroft an intensive chemo treatment, a last stop before the diagnosis of terminal, which Anthea begs him to accept. He'll lose all his hair and become rail thin, fragile to the point of need a cane to walk with but it might stop the spread of dying cells in his body. He's reluctant at first, but agrees because of her pleading blue eyes. The first treatment isn't so bad, he barely feels it that day, that lunch break. It isn't until the next morning does the radiation sink into his aging bones and he's stiffer than normal. He doesn't tell anyone though and walks into the office with his head high. But Anthea's already a step ahead of him and there is a navy umbrella on the table for him, taller than his last one-walnut handle and gold pointed. There's no note, but he's 100% certain that it's from her and her Nior-Tease perfumed body, the scent still lingering in the air. A mixture of that and sunflowers, her favorite shampoo fill his office and he doesn't fight the small smile at the thought of his careful and caring secretary trying to be sneaky and leave him a gift.

Over time it becomes obvious, painfully so, that the treatments hurt him. His once smooth stone face grimaces when he steps wrong or sips too fast and too much at a temperature too warm or too cool. She does her best to make him comfortable, and eventually moves her desk into his office, so that if he does something silly (like get up to pace) she can monitor his facial expressions. Meetings are no longer face to face, they're conference calls or through her, seated in the back of a car driving circles. He's doing his best to be strong but he's failing subtly. She's keeping it under wraps and out of the eyes of the other employees. Rumors begin to fly, Anthea's having an affair with him, Mycroft's fallen for his secretary, they're married...and so on, so to appease the mass of work he slips her another ring one afternoon at the doctors office, subtly placing it on her left ring finger, not a sign of marriage but a sign of loyalty. Treatment begins but he won't let go of her hand, and her fingers intertwine in his, a silent sign of comfort and caring, acknowledgment that he's not alone.

Eventually though, the treatments don't work, and a diagnosis of terminal cancer is given. Now spread to his throat, it's both Esophageal Cancer and Throat Cancer. He's given just 2 months to live, nearly 8 months after his diagnosis and he won't make it another year. Wont see another Jun or July. He takes it surprisingly well, because he gets the news in the office and Anthea's there and just two door away the office is busy, going about like nothing is wrong. Anthea's big blue eyes look up at him from her desk because he's mid-pause, and it's then he can't hold it back anymore. He tells her he's going to die. That May will be the last month he works.

April's a rough month for the two of them. He grows weaker each time she sees him and discreetly she gets a bed placed in the office, a place for him to lay down when he no longer can sit, the pain becoming so heavy that his breathing changes. It's a lithe in his breathing, a whine nearly, as he inhales slowly and painfully through his nose. She hands him water (he's no longer able to take tea) and a pain pill and he swallows them both painfully before laying down on the bed in the corner near the window.

Sometimes he sleeps right away and sometimes he doesn't. When he can't sleep instantly because there is so much pain she drags up a chair next to him and sits there. Sometimes they talk, well she talks, and tells him what films are out, what plays to see, how the weather is outside the city. Her soft voice lulls him to sleep when she starts talking about trips they've taken, and by the time she gets to sunbathing on the nile he's out and snoring softly. As April progresses he invites her to rest next to him as he sleeps. It's hard for him to eat these days, his throat is constricting tighter and tighter as the infectious cells move up towards his mouth. She wouldn't be surprised if he's got mouth cancer now. She doesn't do much when she rests next to him but stare as his profile, shallowly breathing in through his nose. She doesn't talk on those days, just rests silently with him, until the buzzing of her phone pulls her away again.

May rolls around and he seems only to get worse. He's getting his affairs in order, things organized for his departure. Anthea helps silently because there's no point in being sad anymore. They can't do anything about it now. Mycroft's solemn about it, as solemn as a dying man can be. He barely eats anymore, can't even talk anymore-the cancer making it too painful- and it's harder to move because he's getting frail. She doesn't say much anymore, only brings up good things to talk about. She's been silently dealing with the rest of the nation, handling it in late nights at her flat and out of the sight of Mycroft. He knows she's been doing it though, but doesn't say anything, just stares at her with wide, uncharacteristically gentle eyes.

He's doing better the day he dies, which is why it's such a surprise. For the last two days he's looked better, eyes bright, standing-leaning-taller than his was. He even did a bit of paperwork and took a bite of chocolate cake. He smiles at her, maybe he'd make it to June or July or even August. Maybe it's regressing. Her smile matches his, and she starts to make plans for the two of them. If he makes it through May they'd visit the countryside together, one last time. See Mummy. Maybe the cliffs. Maybe the seaside. He'd like that.

The soul gets a second wind right before it leaves, which was the explanation for Mycroft's behavior that day. He'd tried to speak but couldn't, yet ate a bite of cake and drank the tea she'd given him. He was mid stand when she heard him fall from way over at her desk. She rushed over then, expecting to find him struggling to stand, not struggling to breathe. Eyes rolled up to meet hers and she knew then that it was time. Too early, she remembers begging, knowing it was only May fourth, the cancer was taking him too early. She sunk to her knees to cradle his head in her lap, calling out into the room, hollering for help. She knew someone would hear her, they would come running. She did her best not to cry, but still felt her eyes sting, prickles trying to turn to tears as he looked at her. Briefly his eyes rolled to his desk and she reached up for a note that he'd just written. A letter. To Sherlock. He wanted her to give it to him, and she would.

It hurt him to speak but he wanted too, wanted to say something. He opened his mouth and, with extraordinary pain in his throat he spoke, calling her by her real name. She broke then, and couldn't hold back the tears. "I'm here Mycroft," she murmured to him and he offered her the best smile he could. She could hear someone behind her shouting for an ambulance, another person asking what is wrong in her ear, but all she can hear is his dying words. 

_Don't cry, my dear._

 

They bury him in May, in a field out in the countryside that she promised she'd take him to. It's a quiet affair- Sherlock and John are there, Mummy is too and then there's her, not quite his wife but mistaken often enough for it, holding in her tears because that's the last thing he told her to do, and she'd obey even his dying command. Stoic and cold, just like he was and as she heads to leave Sherlock gives her a little nod, like it okay to break down and cry. But she doesn't. She won't.

She gets his job. She has it for exactly one month after his death before her own.

June 4 she's shot in the chest by an unseen sniper in Dubai. She lays in the street, too weak to cover her wound but not quite dead yet. She thinks back to this time one month prior, holding Mycroft's head as he dies in her arms. He worked till the day he died and died in the arms of the only one who knew he was going. She worked till the day she died and died knowing that the arms of the one she loved would be waiting for her when she got there.


End file.
